


Pack Couch: It's A Thing

by hiimraen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Couch Feels, Derek is a secret Cuddle Wolf, Derek's POV, Failwolf, Gen, Hale Sass, Inspired by Fanart, Stiles' and Peter's School for Couch Surfers, The Missing 4 Months, pre-season 3, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiimraen/pseuds/hiimraen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever it was that Stiles said about his couch, Derek bought it solely for sentimental value. Derek actively avoiding sitting in the couch had nothing to do with post-purchase dissonance; it was more of a comfortable issue, <i>shut it, Stilinski</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pack Couch: It's A Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! So the other day I was just scrolling through Tumblr doing almost nothing at all when I stumbled upon [this fanart](http://minomoron.tumblr.com/post/55192673513/pack-couch-by-me-derek-bought-a-new-pack-couch) by the ever lovely [minomoron](http://minomoron.tumblr.com/) and was like, I need to write this.
> 
> And so this happened.
> 
> It was really a spur of the moment thing, I didn't really gave it too much thought as much as making sure that the words that I chose really fit in to what the society's perception of English (my kind of English is very special, nobody else uses it except for me, so...) and if there is anybody who deserve the award of Making Sense out Of Nonsense it'd be the one and only, [Emilie!](http://lydiahastings.tumblr.com/) You, hon, are a gift from God. 
> 
> To me, just to me, though. I dunno about your enemies or whatever.
> 
> Um, just to make things clear, this is a pre-slash and I set the time to be somewhere during the 4 months supernatural-hiatus that the people of Beacon Hills clearly deserve, so there's that. Oh, and also they're working on looking for Boyd and Erica - although...
> 
> You know what, just read it.
> 
> I would love to hear back from you guys! Mistakes, comments, concrit, hatemail - whatever! So leave whatever you want to say down below, and leave a kudos if you know, you have some just lying around. I wouldn't mind.
> 
> ETA: OHMAIGAWD I AM A FAIL I UPLOADED THE PRE-REVISED VERSION SORRY FEW CHANGES MADE, um, probably something during the derek+stiles+couch scene? I can't remember, laaaaame

 

 

There was a leather love seat, in that same shade of purple, back in the old house. Dad decided to dye the whole thing blue, but apparently he mixed something wrong or maybe he didn't apply enough dye, but one thing lead to another and the whole thing turned into a shade of purple instead. Mom was furious for weeks because it clashed with the walls, not to mention the other furniture, but after a week turned into two months then a year, the whole ‘I’ll burn this couch, Jacob!’ threat never came true.

 

There’s one difference between that old love seat and this brand new couch, though. Well, one other than the material of course and that is the comfort level. That thing is as uncomfortable as a rock and Derek hadn't even sat on it once ever since he brought the whole thing up to the loft - not even when he saw that thing at Goodwill, he just grabbed it. Isaac had eyed him balefully at the sight of the ‘monstrosity’ whilst slowly raising a spoonful of cereal up to his mouth.

 

“What is that?”

 

Derek huffed as he all but threw the whole thing out of his hands and to the ground (thankfully it was not only as hard as a boulder, but also sturdy like one). The whole room echoed with the sound of the couch hitting the floor, Isaac bunched up his shoulders in an attempt to cover up his ears as his hands were occupied; now shooting death glares at Derek. “It’s a couch,” Derek said, as he walked into the kitchen, grabbing a mug from the sink and the OJ carton from the refrigerator, pouring in a hefty amount of liquid and artificial pulp into the mug.

 

“I can see that,” Isaac replied, walking to the counter and dumping the rest of his milk into the sink ( _such a waste_ ). He started the tap, rinsing the bowl and the spoon, shaking the excess water off before placing them into the dishwasher. He turned around and crossed his arms, his eyes boring holes into the 'new' couch. “I just don’t get it.”

 

Derek eyed Isaac from the rim of his mug, sipping slowly the cold orange juice. _It’s not like there’s anything to_ get _about a couch._ He lowered the mug a little bit, enough to prompt with a curt,“What?”

 

Isaac was quiet for a few seconds, like he was trying to absorb the whole idea of the couch, before wrinkling his nose in disinterest. “The colour, the materials, the – the whole thing about the couch. I just don’t get it.” He turned his confused eyes to Derek, watching as the other man walked to stand beside him, placing the mug into the sink and not bothering to rinse the used mug. Derek perched his hands on the counter, brushing off the few speckles of dust that was covering a few places on his arms from him lifting the 'new' couch.

 

Derek shrugged, not bothering to look at either Isaac or the couch. “It’s not like you’re going to sit on it anyway.”

 

Isaac snorted a laugh, pushing himself away from the counter and away from the kitchen.

 

“True,” came the tiny reply.

 

 

 

 

 

0o0o0 

 

 

 

In all the two months that Derek had brought in his 'new couch’, he had known only two living and breathing people who had willingly chosen to sit on the purple monstrosity.

 

One of those people is _Peter_.

 

When Peter texted Derek asking about the address to his loft, Derek had told him to go choke on a dick. A few minutes later, Isaac came running down the spiral staircase and out of the loft, something about going to Scott’s. Derek thought nothing of it – it was nice that Isaac wanted to spend time with someone his own age. Plus Scott must’ve known by now that Derek isn’t holding that much of a grudge towards him (not that much anyway – probably just as small as the couch).

 

Which is exactly the reason why, 15 minutes later, when the door to the loft was slid open and a familiar yet unwelcomed voice said hello, the first thing that Derek did was to throw the plate in his hand at Peter. Peter managed to catch the plate, but seeing that the plate was made out of glass, it broke upon contact and Derek managed to cut Peter’s left cheek with one of the flying shrapnel.

 

(He’d admit feeling a bit happy that he managed to hit Peter is a bit childish – considering  that it’s his plate that actually hit Peter instead of his own fist – but he’ll take it any day)

 

“Well, that’s one way to greet your uncle,” Peter said, his voice solemn as he wiped the blood trailing down his face with the back of his jacket. “It’s nice to see you too, Derek.”

 

Derek didn’t even bother with Peter and stalked into the kitchen, starting up the noisy coffee machine that Isaac had brought from his parent’s house, just so he could dull out Peter’s still beating heart and the useless chatter that Peter always had going on whenever he thinks there's an audience - regardless of their willingness to hear anything that he said.

 

Not that it does him any good – stupid Alpha _enhancements_.

 

“I see you’ve done good. I mean, this place is clearly better than the burnt down house – or that other place, where was it? Was it a sewer?”

 

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose as he inhaled the air pumped with the smell of coffee. “It was an _old depot_.”

 

There’s a chuckle and a few snaps of fingers. “Right, right – an _old_ depot. God, you sure love ‘em old, don’t you nephew?” Derek couldn’t help the snarl that he let out, or the loud growl that bubbled up when Peter downright laughed at him. “I mean, no offence, but older people are always better – of course, I am speaking from my own experience.”

 

The fact is, Derek didn’t want to listen to Peter – about anything. Not his stories, not his experiences, nothing. Derek made a grab for his mug, pouring the black coffee in, adding some spoonful of sugars into the mug, stirring them mechanically as he walked back into the living room.

 

That was when he saw that Peter was sitting on the couch - actually sitting, with his feet propped up on the small coffee table that was left by the previous owners, hands linked and resting on his stomach. Derek tried not to stare too much – how can he possibly sit on that thing? – choosing instead to sit on the rackety old wooden chair by the larger work table. Somewhere from the vicinity of the couch came Peter’s voice, “What, no coffee for me? Is this how you treat your guest, Derek?”

 

Derek ignored Peter for a while, blowing and sipping his hot coffee silently when something, probably crunched up paper, hit him square on the back of the head. Derek ignored that too, instead reaching for one of the books that were in one of the boxes that Laura had – random stuff that survived the fire along with few of the stuffs that she collected over their stay at New York. “Suit yourself,” Peter mumbled from the couch. “I don’t particularly care if you’re a horrible host, anyway”

 

 

 

 *

 

Halfway through his second glass of coffee, Derek glanced at Peter and saw that the man was sleeping – on the couch. _Miracle_.

 

 

 

 * 

 

Four cups, eight chapters and six hours later, Peter woke up almost soundlessly, arching his back and shooting his hands high above his head in a stretch, using the coffee table as a leverage to lift his torso off the couch. Derek watched as the man stood up and took stock of the room, smiling when he saw Derek as if he was actually _happy_ to see him. Hardly, Derek thought to himself. Peter made a grab for his jacket and walked briskly to where Derek was perched on the edge of the table.

 

“Well, that was a _really_ good beauty sleep,” Peter claimed, apropos to nothing.

 

“You look the same to me,” Derek replied, grabbing his coffee and crossing his arms. Peter deemed him unworthy of a reply; instead he clapped his hands on Derek’s shoulder. Derek managed to refrain himself from reacting to it, not even a single flinch (and congratulated himself for that).

 

“It is always a good thing to spend time with you, Derek. And seem as it might, I do have my own place, so I’ll be heading off. Send my regards to Isaac; tell him that I _missed_ him so much.” Derek was about to tell Peter that he was sure the feeling was nowhere near mutual, when Peter suddenly moved his hand to the side of his face and pecked his cheek.

 

And Derek just…froze, staring straight ahead as Peter laughed and walked towards the door, shouting something about cleaning up the mess on the floor.

 

_What the fuck?_

 

 

 

 *

 

Derek didn’t know how long he was staring at the ghost of Peter’s back, but soon enough Isaac was waving his hands at him, and Derek blinked as his ears rang at the random, meaningless words weaving their way into his brain through his Peter-induced stupor.

 

“…came home and suddenly there’s glasses _everywhere_ ,” Isaac grumbled as he went to the kitchen to grab a paper bag, bending down to pick up the glass pieces bare-handed. He was still talking and mumbling about stuff, not that Derek was actively listening, as he picked up pieces of the plates and dumping them into the bag. Eventually, Derek forced himself to move, but the soft crunch by his feet made him stop. He looked down, and saw a pool of black liquid – must be his coffee, goddamn it – and pieces of his shattered mug. “ _Great_.”

 

“Derek – you okay?”

 

Derek looked up and saw Isaac staring back at him – his eyes just a tad bit wide and his hands static as he stared ahead. Derek tried nodding, which apparently was the right thing to do as Isaac resumed cleaning up the mess, absentmindedly asking Derek what he did today. To be honest, Derek had accomplished nothing today. But it’s not like he’s going to say that to Isaac – not if they’re going to find Boyd and Erica (and they will find them. _Alive_ ). So instead he told Isaac what had happened that day, as opposed to what _he_ did.

 

“Peter came by,” Derek said, his voice soft almost like he was in a trance. Due to the complete lack of fast moving objects or people, Derek’s eyes instantly locked on Isaac who had suddenly stopped moving and just…froze. _Weird_. “He slept on the couch,” Derek continued, pointing at the couch, where there was still an indent the shape of Peter’s butt and back on the couch.

 

From the look of Isaac’s face, he probably got that Derek’s day didn’t really go that well. It was only a few second though, before a small smile and faint blush colored his face, a sure sign as any that nope, Derek would _not_ want to hear about any of Isaac’s day - especially not with that _smile_ and that _blush_. As soon as Isaac opened his mouth, Derek quickly cut him with, “I think he told me to relay a message to you.”

 

The clank echoed as the bag that was on Isaac’s hand fell back to the floor.

 

“He said he missed you? And then he kissed me on the cheek. Like an old lady,” Derek finished with a shrug.

 

“Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” Isaac said as he abandoned the bag and mess on the floor, stood up and advanced towards Derek. Derek held up his hand, effectively halting Isaac, before pointing to the mess at floor by Isaac’s feet and the one beneath his. “Clean all these up,” was all that Derek said as he made a move towards his bed.

 

He’s so done with Peter’s shit.

 

 

 

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

 

Things stayed like that for a couple of weeks; Derek and Isaac avoided the couch like it was the plague and ignoring it would somehow makes it go away or something. Every other day Peter would barge in and sleep on the couch like he was some homeless person with an admirable fashion sense dripping with sass. And during half of those visits, Isaac was either out to scout more areas, hanging out with Scott or was just conveniently missing.

 

 _Every damn time_.

 

That motherfucker.

 

 

 

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

 

It was a Saturday and Derek was out doing a grocery run at the local store. He was trying to recall the brand of OJ that Isaac loved (Derek personally is okay with anything – with or without pulp – but the last time he bought the one without pulps, Isaac actually drained the whole carton whilst pouting pathetically at Derek, as if it was his fault to begin with) when his phone vibrated in his pants, indicating a new text.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Derek quickly took one of the bottles, not really looking. A quick glance on the list in his phone showed quite a few more items to get before he’s done. Hopefully this wouldn’t take too long.

 

 

 

 *

 

When Derek stepped into the loft, the place was surprisingly quiet. He was expecting some mild rambling or mumbling (the nights that he spent in Stiles’ room during his ‘refugee’ were admittedly not comfortable, what with Stiles’ insistent rambling, even while asleep), or the least he expected to see was either Stiles or Isaac (or both) perched on the work table staring at Stiles’ laptop or something. Don’t get him wrong; Stiles’ laptop was there alright, at the coffee table, and Stiles’ backpack was there too, thrown haphazardly on the floor by the couch.

 

In fact, _Stiles_ was there too, on the couch.

 

Or you know, somebody who was built like Stiles, wearing soft orange pants and a bright blue t-shirt (not really Stiles' way of fashion) – Derek had his share of random junkies or a few daredevil wannabe sneaking into his loft and tripping the alarm (something about them thinking that the building was abandoned or something. Like hell it was abandon, Derek _lives_ here.). Still, Derek chose to ignore probably-Stiles for a while, moving to the kitchen whilst scanning the loft for Isaac, but there was only one other heartbeat that wasn’t his own, so he’s out then. Derek dumped his groceries on top of the counter and walked back to the living room.

 

From here Derek could see that probably-Stiles was lying face down on the couch, his head covered with the ever-present plaid shirt. Derek wasn’t sure whether the kid was sleeping or if he was doing one of those things that he does when he was too keyed up to do anything.

 

(Stiles had once grabbed a baseball, stuffed it in his mouth, went to the door and ran towards the bed, landing face-first on top of the covers. He then screamed at the top of his lungs. He was doing some chemistry homework.

 

He had come up for air, saw that Derek was staring at him, and gaped at Derek for a good few second as the ball just _rolled_ out of his slack mouth. Apparently he had forgotten that he was housing Derek’s ‘fugitive ass’)

 

Derek stopped at the side where probably-Stiles’ head was, and kicked the couch as gently as he could without dismissing the intention behind the kick. Probably-Stiles and the entirety of the couch moved with the kick, but neither of them seemed to be fazed by it. Derek kicked it a second time and twice more before a groan came from Stiles, a hand reaching up and pulling down the shirt that was covering his face.

 

Stiles groaned out something (that sounds ~~vaguely~~ like Stiles), but Derek wasn’t really listening, too busy staring at the top of Stiles’ head where there was hair – _long_ hair. _Huh, that’s new_. Derek leaned down, resting his palms on the armrest and brought his face closer, studying the new hairstyle. It’s not that he didn’t like it, but it looked…nice.

 

Which was exactly the moment when Stiles pushed his entire upper body up, allowing his whole face to come just a couple of inches away from Derek’s ( _that's definitely Stiles' eyes_ ). It took him a few seconds for his eyes to refocus, but Derek could clearly tell the exact moment that they did because Stiles gave an aborted shout, throwing his body onto the floor in a heap of tangled limbs.

 

Definitely him.

 

“ _What the hell?!_ ” Stiles demanded when he managed to right himself, his feet apparently still asleep as he swayed dangerously towards the coffee table. Derek extended an arm to help steady Stiles, but the offer was not appreciated, not when Stiles slapped his hand away (and instantly brought that hand to his chest, clearly in pain). “What the hell man? Can’t a guy sleep in peace?”

 

Derek snorted, because (1) this is his house, (2) that is his couch and (3) Stiles can sleep, sure but _not_ in his house or on his couch. Derek didn’t tell him that, instead he eyed Stiles’ hair and said, “And here I thought you were helping us locate Boyd and Erica.”

 

Stiles huffed and threw his whole body on the couch, before he sat up and pulled the coffee table closer; opening his laptop once it was where he wanted it to be. “I am helping, stop being a sourwolf. But first things first, tell me what you got?”

 

 

 

 *

 

It was hours later – Isaac finally back from checking some of the abandon warehouses in the south-east area – and the three of them were lounging around, waiting for their Chinese order to arrive: Derek sitting on the wooden chair with his feet propped up on the coffee table, and Isaac sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back to the couch when Stiles, the only one sitting on the couch, actually asked;

 

“So, like - why are you guys not using the couch?”

 

Derek wasn’t sure whether he’s surprised that Stiles would’ve noticed this on his first visit or he’s just annoyed that Stiles felt the need to even ask that question. Sure, Derek and Isaac didn’t really bothered using the couch – the couch isn’t that bad, not really, it’s just a matter of belief. As much as he values the sentimentality that the couch has, he believes that nothing that looks that horrible should be good. But it was Isaac who answered Stiles, smirking at the other teen like he’s telling him a secret. “We hate it. Besides, Peter loves this couch and it’s shitty as hell.”

 

Stiles looked from Derek to Isaac and back, his mouth agape. “You have got to be kidding me,” Stiles said, right when the alarm went off and Derek got up to retrieve their order. Somewhere behind him, Stiles was explaining to Isaac how the couch was _awesome_ and _comfy_ and yeah, that’s Stiles alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 0o0o0

 

 

 

It was nearing the end of the summer months but the heat had yet to subside – and it certainly did not plan to do that anytime today.

 

Stiles was moaning about it from where he was lying on the couch in just his Spiderman boxers, his plaid shirt thrown on the floor, along with his stupid colored pants (it’s a shade of red today). Derek was nowhere near as bad as Stiles, but he was shirtless, his feet free from the confinement of his stuffy boots, and any minute now, he was going to take off his pants too because the whole place was definitely heating up. His only saving grace was Isaac with the promise of pizza, because by then he’d be too busy stuffing his face with food to even notice little things like _heat_.

 

Derek got up from his stripped bed (Derek had pushed everything off the bed because even lying on top of the covers was _hot_ and _stuffy_ and _no_ ) and walked slowly to the kitchen, grabbing two plastic cups (he learnt from his mistakes, of course) and poured two glasses of cold water from the tap before grabbing a handful of ice for each cup.

 

Stiles was _sprawled_ on the couch – he had one hand covering his eyes as his bare feet, crossed at the ankles were perched on the armrest, twitching to the song that Stiles was humming under his breath. Stiles’ shirt was rucked up, his free hand scratching mindlessly at the ~~pale skinned~~ stomach, a trail of hair leading from Stiles’ belly button all the way down, until it vanished in Stiles’ boxers.

 

Stiles didn’t noticed that Derek was coming closer, nor that Derek was leaning over him, so when Derek carefully placed the bottom of the cup on Stiles’ stomach, the kid jumped and almost kicked Derek squarely in the face. “ _Oh my GOD_! Derek! What are you doing?!” Stiles’ face was flushed, both from the heat and probably from the shock, his pale stomach slowly bleeding red where the cup had touched skin.

  
Derek shrugged and handed him one of the cups. “You were sweating all over my couch. I just don’t want you to die from dehydration on it,” Derek explained nonchalantly. Stiles took the cup, but not before huffing and puffing, then taking a seat on the couch like a normal person.

 

As far as _Derek_ is concerned, no normal person would sit on that, which probably explains why only Stiles and Peter ever sat on it, but still.

 

 

 

 

 

0o0o0

 

 

 

 

_**Stiles' phone** _

 

 

 

 

*

 

The last thing Derek remembered was his phone vibrating in his pants. He took out his phone, not really looking at where he was stepping when he heard a really loud crack, and then he was airborne. He’s pretty sure he smashed right through two floors, but somewhere between counting how many badly maintained floorboards he managed to break and getting back his bearing, he hit ground head first and knocked himself out.

 

 

 

 *

 

Familiar evening sunlight flooded his vision as he wrenched his eyes open, barely able to call his hand to cover his eyes. The magnificent sight of his glowing ceiling-to-floor glass wall was good, surprising Derek himself as his shoulders relaxed and he laid there, basking in the evening light. Which was the exact moment that he realized just how sweaty and hot he was, _fuck_.

 

Derek didn’t quite know how he got back to the loft, but the overpowering smell of coffee was doing good to his nerves – enemies don’t make a cup of coffee before they slaughter you, right? Ignoring the lump in his throat, he pushed himself up, folding his body in half with much difficulty and groaning when he felt the cuts and scratches that scattered across his lower half. Derek looked down at his jean-clad legs, noticing the unnatural way his leg was bent – broken then. He stayed there for a while, heaving in caffeinated air when the friction underneath his hand was suddenly gone and he hit the unfamiliar soft surface with a gasp.

 

Something clanked, metal on concrete, and then Stiles’ voice floated to his ears, curses then a few quick steps before a pair of cold hands were softly trailing ghost touches all over his face. Derek couldn’t really focus on what was going on – his mid-section and right leg were buzzing like his nerves were on fire – but then his head was being lifted and a cool glass was pressed to his lower lips.

 

“Open up,” Stiles commanded him, and Derek was too tired and too hurt to tell him no, just so that he could listen to Stiles’ voice, so he did – he parted his lips and a flood of water rushed into his throat, coughing a little when some managed to go down the wrong pipe. He barely drank a few gulps, before the cool plastic was being snatched away and he was being lowered again, the familiar smell of his own pillow now flooding his awakening senses. Derek had no clue whether he was asleep or awake but his eyes snapped open, a hiss escaping from his mouth, when a wet towel was pressed to his flank.

 

“Derek, Derek stop squirming – I need to – _oh my God_ , Derek! Stop!”

 

Derek looked down and saw that he was holding Stiles’ hand – the one with the cloth – in a tight hold; his other hand gripping Stiles’ shoulder, claws barely hidden. Derek withdrew his hands slowly, letting them fall wherever they happened to fall. Stiles rearranged his hands once he was sure that Derek wouldn’t move again, ignoring Derek’s pained, “hurts.”

 

“I know, but you need to sleep, Derek,” Stiles said instead.

 

“Stiles –”

 

“ _Sleep_.”

 

And he did.

 

 

 

 *

 

When Derek woke up the next time, he felt way better and marginally worse at the same time.

 

His mid-section felt better; and from the way his right leg was idly moving on the floor, he could tell that it was no longer broken. His head was clear and he could clearly see the clock that Isaac insisted that they have, high up on one of the beams, the short hand between 9 and 10 and the long hand inching closer to 5.

 

He felt worse because his throat was killing him and his left leg was dead (figuratively, of course) and there was something was digging his chest. Derek moved his eyes a bit lower and immediately saw Stiles' sleeping face staring back at him, eyes closed and a trail of drool escaping from his parted lips down to pool at Derek's chest.  His whole body was on top of Derek, practically using Derek like a huge pillow. _Hopefully it was after I healed_ , Derek thought to himself.

 

Derek moved his hand to wake Stiles up – he’s not feeling any circulation on his left leg, seriously – when he saw a yellow post-it – wait, there’s two, no, a _lot_ – glued to the back of his hand. Derek brought it closer to read, and there on the note was Stiles’ scratchy hand-writing saying,

 

  

  

 

Derek huffed, moving Stiles’ head from its perch on top of his chest to a more comfortable position (that seemed bad for the neck), before crumpling and throwing the note somewhere in the direction of the work table. _Stupid Stilinski_. But oddly enough, having Stiles on top of him was not uncomfortable – in fact the slow heart beat and the soft inhale and exhale felt good, peaceful if Derek was pushed.

 

But Stiles aside, the blood circulation to his left foot was still cut and he still needed liquid for his throat, so Derek carefully placed his right hand on the back of Stiles’ head, using his left hand on the couch’s back to pull his and Stiles’ body so that his back was resting on the armrest. It was quite a struggle – Stiles was sliding alarmingly fast off the surface of his stomach and a couple more inches that pretty face would be somewhere Derek is definitely not awake enough to deal with – but he managed, pulling Stiles once by the armpits and somehow managing not to either wake Stiles up or get his left leg pinned again.

 

From his new position, Derek could clearly see that Stiles was indeed without pants, his shirt now all bunched up under his armpits and half of his back now on view for Derek. He looked to his right and saw that the coffee table was moved a bit to the left side, now closer to Derek than it was originally before, a glass of water near the edge of it along with a few books. There’s another post-it note on the cup, and with a bit of a reach, Derek managed to pluck the note off the glass. On it was the message,

 

 

Derek chuckled at the angry tone of Stiles’ all uppercase note. _Better not then_. Again Derek crumpled the note but this time he left it on the table as he reached for the glass full of water. Derek drank half of it, placing it on the floor by the couch rather than on the table. He glanced at the book and saw, on top, was the book that he was reading – the ones about ancient werewolves’ lore and histories, one of Mom’s favorite.

 

 _Seems like this is going to take a while_ , Derek thought as he pulled the book, resting it on Stiles’ back, his right hand cradling Stiles’ face closer to him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

He got to admit; like this, the couch was _hella comfortable_. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks guys for reading! You can stalk me over [at tumblr](http://stopdropandhowl.tumblr.com/), I just changed the theme. Tell me if you love it *sparklyeyes*


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